The flower murderer and other mishaps
by CrazyHeels
Summary: In which parents are deranged, Holmes and Watson don't know what to do, and murderers are surprisingly stylish. Please review. *rated M because FanFiction is overprotective of its readers* normal rating: T
1. Prologue

_Title:_ The flower murderer…and other mishaps

_Summary_: In which parents are deranged, Holmes and Watson don't know what to do, and murderers are surprisingly stylish. Holmes/OC Watson/OC

_Disclaimer:_ We don't own anything except Charlize, Evie, her parents and other character we create to further help the plot.

…

Prologue

…

By CrazyHeels and The Queen in Black Veil

Maybe it was the mud, splashed all about, or maybe it was the awful stench of the port, either way Charlize was reminded why she hated London so much. Her friend, Evie, on the other hand took a deep breath and sighed in pleasure.

"It's wonderful, isn't it?"

"Marvelous." remarked Charlize with a dry voice as she dodged a street urchin who was about to cling to her dress. God forbid she ruined it!

"Sarcasm isn't becoming of a lady of your stature." smiled Evie as she handed a penny to the urchin, much to Charlize's disdain.

"In these surroundings it's thoroughly accepted." sniffed the redheaded as she arranged her hat just as a carriage pulled over a few feet away and a middle-aged couple got out.

Evie instantly recognized the booming voice of her mother and flinched as if struck by lightning, throwing her friend an apologetic look. Charlize's earlier sour mood vanished however and was replaced by amusement as it always did when she saw Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore. She linked hands with her friend as she couldn't help tease the blonde.

"Oh, how I missed your parents."

The plump woman was busy telling her husband off in a way that made sure the whole street heard her too.

"I told you we were going to be late! We're always late because of you!" her voice rose to an irritating pitch.

"Yes dear, it's always me," he droned "and not because you spend hours lacing your corset…" the man toyed with his moustache, appreciating the view of generous curves nipped into the inhumanly thin waist that was his wife.

"What was that?" Mrs. Whittemore snapped giving her husband a long look

"Nothing, dear. Look there's Evie and Charlize."

Evie, who now resembled a tomato, welcomed her mother's enthusiastic hug and sloppy kisses before throwing her to Charlize, much to the redhead's mortification.

"Papa!" she pecked his cheek and hugged him briefly "How have you and Mother been?"

"Well, as you can see, it didn't get quieter after you left."

From behind them Mrs. Whittemore's voice boomed drawing attention from passersby.

"You poor dear, you're nothing but skin and bones! Don't worry- we'll be sure to fill you up and make you plump and healthy while you're here."

Charlize tried to smile but she was sure it came out as a grimace. With help from Evie's father they were soon in the carriage and off to the blonde's home. Mrs. Whittemore kept insisting all the way there about how unnaturally thin the two of them have gotten since their last stay in London and how they needed to gain a few more pounds. All Charlize could think was 'English women…'.

The journey to Evie's home proved just as unpleasant as their voyage across the English Channel had been and Charlize got to be reacquainted with the English roads in all their bumpy glory once more. Then, she nearly ended face first in her friend's substantial bosom which didn't help her mood and by the time they arrived she was in sore need of a pipe.

Things of course didn't improve after they got out of the carriage. Reaching for her pipe, she was startled to see it ripped out of her hand by Evie's mother.

"Oh no no no, dear. We have to teach you out of this nasty habit of yours!" Mrs. Whittemore scolded her, hurling the pipe as far as she could.

Seeing Charlize's outraged look, Mr. F and Evie quickly ushered her inside, each taking her by one hand and shooting expressions to the redheaded hoping to convey their feelings of regret.

"Quelle femme baise. Je ne peu pas croire la stupidite dans son grosse tête." She cursed in french and marched to where the pipe had landed. She gave the now muddy, broken object one good look then turned around and went inside "Malhereusement…Quelle horreur…"

Evie was waiting for her in the lobby practically burning a hole in the carpet and, without waiting for her to say anything, Charlize pointed to the front door.

"I need another pipe. Now!"

"_Now_?"

"No I was being sarcastic, of course now! And you're paying."

Sighing dejectedly and glancing upwards as if asking why her, Evie wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and poked her head in the parlor "Me and Charlize are going out for a bit."

"Alright, just be sure you're here before six, we're eating out tonight."

After his daughter and friend departed, Mr. Whittemore shook his head and turned to his wife.

"This time you were quite out of line, madam."

Mrs. Whittemore flushed and pursed her lips, but for once remained silent.

"Now how about some tea?"

Evie tried to keep up with Charlize's purposeful strides as the redheaded practically ran along the packed streets. Fanning herself insistently, she kept lagging behind and nearly bumped into a man. Snapping that he should watch where he was going she pushed past him not noticing the amusement shining in his eyes.

Arriving at a pipe shop that looked quite expensive from the outside, Charlize felt like she was in her own paradise while Evie glanced at the pieces rather awkwardly. At the counter two rather tall gentlemen seemed to be arguing rather heatedly, from what Charize heard as she turned to admire a pipe.

"No, Watson, that will not do. This pipe is not practical. If you would _really_ care for a friend, this is the thing you should buy said friend for his birthday." The man told his friend off as he pointed from a brown pipe to a shiny black one with silver inserts "It shows you care."

"And you do?" Charlize heard the other man mutter.

Taking Evie by her arm, she showed her to a section where she'd caught sight of a pretty cherry red pipe, deeming the two gentlemen uninteresting. It took her about half an hour to decide upon one, but in the end she was the proud owner of a hand-worked, long-stemmed cherry wood pipe. The beauty of it could be seen even from an amateur's perspective as the chamber was a vibrant red and the stem had some simple ornaments carved in it.

A happier Charlize proved a better company and less likely to run ahead, which made Evie's life so much easier.

"We're back," cried Evie feeling all of a sudden exhausted.

Mrs. Whittemore bustled downstairs from her bedroom, welcoming her daughter with enthusiasm, before turning wearily to Charlize.

"Dear, I hope you know I meant nothing bad by throwing your pipe. It's just such a nasty habit to have, especially for such a delicate, young girl like you. It's a men's habit and a girl who smokes pipes gives off the wrong idea. I'm sure one of these days you'll se what I mean."

"It's quite alright, Mrs. Whittemore." interrupted Charlize "No harm done." she finished, sarcasm dripping heavily on every word.

Mrs. Whittemore didn't seem to catch on as she patted Charlize's cheek affectionately, then quickly showed them to their rooms with orders to freshen up and be ready by five and a half.

"English women."

"More like only my Mother!"

Snickering, they helped one another pick dresses then went to their own rooms to change. By the time they were all ready, they were running late and had to suffer another lecture of Mrs. Whittemore. The woman however was a bit watery eyed as she looked at the beautiful young women the two had bloomed into and couldn't really find her words.

Her Evie looked positively angelic in her pale blue dress, hair pinned into an elaborate coiffeur that was the latest fashion with tasteful curls framing her pretty face and if possible Charlize looked utterly ravishing in her bottle green dress and every part the rich young Frenchwoman she was.

"You two look…" she hid her face in a handkerchief as Mr. Whittemore guided them all out.

Dinner at The Royale proved to be quite interesting, if not slightly humorous as well. Evie's mother was on a man hunt for her daughter, since she saw it was time for her to get married and left Charlize to chat with Mr. F.

"Oh look who's here Evie dear!" Mrs. M said enthusiastically, almost staining her daughter's dress with wine "That's Percival, Mrs. Clifton's son. Quite the charming young man."

"Quite the looker," was Evie's prompt reply and Charlize had to hide a smile behind the rim of her glass.

"True, true. You'd make a lovely couple."

"Yes, Evie, I think you've finally found your other half. Watch out, he appears to be quite the ladies man." Charlize approved her best friend's mother only to get on the younger girl's nerves.

Evie made a face as she stared at the lanky guy with a pinched face and hooked nose, sitting a few tables away. He had acne on his face for the Queen's sake.

"Shall I introduce?"

She turned pleading eyes at Charlize who in turned looked at her with a 'I-love-how-you're-tortured-by-your-mother' look.

"Maybe another time, mother. I think they're getting ready to leave," Evie pointed out.

Mrs. Whittemore visibly deflected as she snatched her glass of wine and drank a copious amount. Her daughter on the other hand smiled triumphantly as she fiddled with the fish knife. Her mother's sour mood didn't last as she noticed the man who just entered.

"How about Garrett Daugherty ? He's been in the army and he's a little older than you are, but the man is respected in our social circle."

"I can see that," Evie remarked dryly.

"What dear?" Mrs. Whittemore asked snapping from her reverie.

"That he's been in the war."

"How so dear?" her mother asked in wonder and began scanning him from head to toe.

"He's missing an arm," she deadpanned.

"Oh, yes. I didn't notice."

Sometimes Evie wanted to throttle her mother.

Charlize was swept in a conversation about increasing taxes and greedy banks that stole money from ordinary people without them knowing. Mr. Whittemore kept defending the bank he was running without accusations being thrown.

"We try at our bank to keep track of this God forsaken economy and offer a good deal. It's very hard these day with…" he went on and on as he arranged his moustache.

She couldn't listen anymore. Instead, Charlize glanced around the room looking for nothing in particular.

Until she saw him.

The man was tall with a slightly muscular build and a pair of the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Dressed as he was with a military uniform she couldn't help thinking how becoming it was on him and how he was nothing like the men in her country were. A proper, young Englishman.

She elbowed her best friend with enthusiasm and showed him with a move of her eyes. Evie waggled her eyebrows suggestively, but was swept again by her mother who craved attention in a one man conversation.

"Show him to your mother or even think about getting him and you're kaput," Charlize whispered in her ear.

"As if. He's nice…" Evie's eyes zeroed on the man's companion and Charlize turned around to see what had rendered her friend speechless.

"A bum…"

"A rugged, handsome bum," grinned her friend turning to her mother.

"Mother, who's the man sitting at that table?"

Mrs. Whittemore looked in the direction her daughter was pointing to.

"That's Dr. Watson. He's a military doctor who went to…"

"The blue eyed one?" interrupted Charlize

"None other."

"Actually, I was wondering about the one who looks like a bum," Charlize cut in.

Mrs. Whittemore paled and grimaced as she glanced at the man that had caught her daughter's eye.

Dark brown, untidy hair, wiry build and dressed in wrinkled clothes, he refused to disappear from her sight.

"That is no one you need to concern yourself with," was the rather snappish reply of her mother.

"Why's that?"

"Evie, you really wouldn't want to get involved with Mr. Holmes," advised Mr. Whittemore as he lit his pipe "He's a rather…eccentric fellow."

"Bah!" Mrs. Whittemore glared at the man in question "He's a good for nothing…"

"Mrs. Whittemore!" Mr. Whittemore gasped in shock.

"You just stay away from him," warned Mrs. Whittemore wiggling her bejeweled fingers at her daughter.

Charlize looked at her friend's serious, determined face as she conceded to her mother with a nod, but knew from the curiosity shinning in her green eyes that this matter would hardly be left alone.

And she was proven right the next day.

Thank God for wine.

…


	2. Chapter 1

_Title:_ The flower murdered…and other mishaps

Summary: In which parents are deranged, Holmes and Watson don't know what to do, and murderers are surprisingly stylish. Holmes/OC Watson/OC

_Disclaimer:_ We don't own anything except Charlize, Evie, her parents and whatever other character we create to further help the story arrive at the point we wish it to go. That doesn't include Holmes, Watson or anybody you've seen in Sir. Conan Arthur Doyle's movie version with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law.

…

Chapter One

…

Watson had been having a good morning.

Until he woke up.

By Nan.

Telling him that Holmes had locked himself in his room and not even a few minutes later a foul smell had seeped through the door. And God was it horrible! As soon as he'd set foot near the door his eyes had watered and he'd choked, pounding on the door like a desperate man and yelling for Holmes to open up in a strangled, shrilly voice he'd later deny he possessed.

"HOLMES THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!"

Watson had had enough of the stench and felt ready to knock the door of its hinges, but just as he threw himself at them, they opened and he ended up sprawled on the ground.

"Now Watson, no need to hurt the floor, it hasn't done anything to you," his friend grinned mischievously taking the tray with breakfast from a positively outraged Nan. "Now move along, Nanny."

"Why I never!"

"Will you be joining me, Watson?" asked Holmes while watching Watson stumble to his feet and completely ignoring his landlady, who left with an irritated huff "I hope so, since I have this fascinating theory I would like your expertise as a doctor…"

"Holmes, why must you insist on making it harder on Mrs. Hudson?" he went on before Holmes could open his mouth closing the door to his rooms. "And if not her, then why do you insist on making this hard for me, your only friend? On my last day here, if I might add."

"I assure you Watson, I am simply being my usual self," he sat down on an armchair picking the newspaper and looking it over.

"Yes, that's exactly my point," sitting next to his friend after he poured a warm cup of tea to clear his usual morning Holmes induced headache, Watson glanced at the front page of the newspaper the title catching his attention "Flower murderer? That's a bit of a fancy name."

"Yes, he is apparently a stylish murderer. This clearly shows how far the humans have devolved to call murder stylish," frowned the man lighting his pipe. "And what is so stylish about this person? The fact that he covers his victim in flowers after stabbing them, please, Watson! There is no man with a speck of originality left in his marrow who can commit a murder that can be called stylish."

"Unless you suddenly decide you've had enough of solving cases and go villain," Watson deadpanned.

"Yes, yes, unless that man would be me. But I can assure you, Watson, I would never do such a thing."

"I know…" he said a lot quieter, losing his previous anger at his friend

Holmes might have been a complete bum, lacking in many areas but he wasn't a bad man. Well, somewhere deep, deep, _deep_ inside he wasn't. And he was proven right when the consulting detective got to his feet and rummaged through the mess in room before finding what he needed and throwing it at him.

"What's this?" he asked a bit startled, opening the packet only to have a massive piece of jewelry fall in his lap. "Holmes where did you get this?"

"Courtesy of Miss Adler and with best wishes from me for your… Mary," and though he finished by pursing his lips and looking as if he'd just swallowed a lemon, Watson couldn't help but feel touched.

"Holmes, thank you," his best friend conveyed, while marveling the opulence of the expensive ring.

"Yes, yes," and waving off his thanks the man began mumbling under his breath turning around the room, his cheeks dusted rosy as he tried avoiding Watson's grateful, twinkling eyes.

Damn him and his puppy eyes!

Thankfully Lestrade found just the right moment to intrude, barging inside his quarters followed closely by Clark and a protesting Mrs. Hudson.

"Sorry to barge in on you gentlemen, but you're needed downtown, Holmes. The flower murder, whom I'm sure you know about, reached his fifth victim last night. Doctor Watson," he acknowledged the man with a passing nod and Watson stifled back any feeling of resentment.

He was going to be a married man soon and his days as Holmes' partner had come to an end. As if guessing his thoughts, Holmes threw a glance his way and told the inspector to wait for him downstairs and that he'd be there shortly. Watson said his goodbyes and went to his own room to get ready for his date with Mary.

Maybe he could even buy her some flowers. Probably some red roses to present them with her engagement ring.

He was sure she'd be more than pleased.

…

He lit his trusty pipe with the flick of a match and inspected the murder scene, trained eyes going from place to place until the pair rested on the woman. A silver dagger stuck into the abdomen of the female, the dried blood staining her corset and leaving a pool around the body. The corpse was covered in flowers of all kinds – yellow chrysanthemum, red roses, sunflowers, tuberoses, jonquils, peonies, orange blossoms and many more others. What stood out was the lone monkshood flower she was holding between her folded hands.

Holmes, however, had no time to inspect the body any further as a mob of reporters barged at the crime scene and started taking photographs like a pack of rabid dogs. Everything was compromised.

Lestrade attempted to keep them at bay, trying to tell them that the Scotland Yard wasn't as incompetent as they made them be and the case would soon be solved. He wasn't fooling anybody.

"Mister Holmes, do you have anything to say regarding-"

"Do you have any leads about-"

"How far are you from solving the case-"

He ignored them all with poise and dignity.

Not really, he just turned his back to them and went to Lestrade. The man stepped away the moment he saw them showering Sherlock with questions.

"Found anything, Holmes?" the man asked patting his forehead with a handkerchief after he got rid of the meddling people who made the crime scene useless. Reporters those days could be quite intimidating and enthusiastic, always chasing a good story.

"Despite the obvious, that she's a female of about 5'4, ginger-haired, which means she's either a green eyed or blue eyed person who used to work at the shop down Kingston's intersection with Marigold - Geoffrey's Hats…if I'm not mistaken; then yes, I think I might know something. But I'll let you know about it after I've done some more research. And close your mouth Lestrade, I'm not in the mood to check for any cavities you might suffer."

Without a nod at anybody else he was off.

…

"My little Evie is growing up…" Charlize said, imitating Mrs. Whittemore's voice as she pretended to swell up with tears of pride like her friend's mother would often do.

"Oh shove it!" Evie protested, cheeks turning rosy at the thought of the roguishly handsome dark-haired man from the previous day. "I could say the same about you."

"'Cept I've already done my share of growing up," grinned Charlize lighting her pipe and getting up to pour herself another cup of coffee "You on the other hand…" she trailed off.

"Argh!" cried Evie, now beetroot, covering her face in her hands.

"Can't your poor virgin ears handle the truth?" laughed the redhead while enjoying her friend's discomfort. "Oh it's perfectly normal and healthy to admire the opposite sex. It's even more so encouraged in ladies of our status to admire them. How else are you supposed to get a husband?"

"Yes, but from a certain distance, not behind closed doors and between sheets like you do," scolded Evie and accepted her own coffee from Charlize. "And for arguments' sake, even if my mother wouldn't die of an epileptic fit if I were to show an interest in Mr. Holmes, I would never have the courage to approach him."

"Very true. You're like a Virign Mary without the Baby Jesus and well, you're name isn't Mary."

"Charlize, please these comparisons are anything but flattering and if mother or even papa heard us…"

"You worry too much."

"Because you don't worry enough!"

A maid decked in a rather plain black dress with a white apron carrying a large bouquet came into the parlor. "Excuse me misses, these arrived for Ms. Evangeline this morning."

Making a face at her full name, Evie stood up, placing her coffee on the nearest table and showed the maid where to place the flowers.

"Already a day in London and you have a secret admirer? You go, _Evangeline_!"

Smiling at her friend's enthusiasm and flushing a becoming red, she picked the card lying among the many purple lilacs.

_I look forward to our next meeting._

"Someone you know?"

"It's not signed."

"Well, you'll at least have something to look forward to. Who knows? Maybe your secret admirer is Mr. Holmes, himself."

Smiling at the thought she took a deep breath, letting the sweat perfume of lilacs wash over her.

…

Sorry for the long wait, but Holmes is one tough cookie to write. Review and tell us what're your thoughts so far and if we've done a good job keeping them in character.


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